Lunch
by sissyHIYAH
Summary: Zell can't understand why Red won't let him eat hot dogs, and Red ain't so sure herself.


It wasn't that she minded the boy.

Not really, anyway.

Most of the time.

He was a sweet lad. Considerate, polite, always punctual. She admired punctuality. It displayed respect for the time of others, and given that their time was measured to the second, punctuality meant more than gold.

But still.

Oh, but still...

"Hot dogs ready yet?"

"Get back, boy. This isn't the day for hot dogs."

"Yeah, but you said I'd have a nice surprise for me, and I figured that..."

He sanitized the tables and trays. The boy was a wonder with bleach. She had always figured that he was eager to clean the utensils because he was pocketing Clorox in a condom to bleach his hair, but goddamn, the boy was genuinely interested in hygiene.

"Then you figured wrong. Creamed corn. There's your surprise."

"But that's just Thursday! We all know Thursday is creamed corn day!"

"Then why do you act so surprised?"

Bless his soul, he really was surprised. Had she any pity left to give, she might have given it to him. He had puppy eyes. True, they were the eyes of a starving puppy that had been kicked into pathetic submission, but they were puppy eyes nonetheless.

"B-b-but!"

"There are no buts here. You eat the corn or you go hungry. I will give you an "or" but I will never give you a "but."

Oh, but she wanted to. She wanted to give him a swift kick in the ass, but he was a delicate creature and if she said ass, he would blush, and far be it for her to make life any harder for him. So she made puns with conjunctions. He knew how to junction, of course, but conjunctions? He was an idiot.

"But you said there would be a surprise!"

Ah. Yes. She had promised that, hadn't she. The surprise was the cream in the corn, as corn had no cream, at least not in nature, so it was a miracle that the canned food manufacturers had discovered a way to transform a mere vegetable into some carbohydrate-laden gravy miracle.

"You're lucky you're eating anything at all! Be thankful for this! My children would never be so ungrateful as to..."

"Yeah, but they never visit anyway, and besides..."

She knew her expression had changed the second he coughed. Damn the fool.

"You don't want the corn? I'll feed it to the birds."

"No! I want the corn!"

Poor boy. He did want the corn, pitiful as it was. The industrial cans they received were so full of water that the actual food had to be drained before serving, and the flavor was wonderful, if one happened to enjoy the taste of heat-sealed steel. The sodium content alone was worth reporting to the Bureau of Food and Nutrition, but she had a feeling that her letters would be mysteriously lost in the mail.

"My cooking is not good enough for you?"

"What? No! I love your cooking!"

Indeed he did. He was first in line, last to leave. The food was terrible, no matter how many decayed spices she added to the main dishes.

Cayenne from 1995.

Mint from some dark period in the Cold War.

Pepper from last week, but pepper from another prison. She added a decade to the expiration date as a default/safety mechanism. Sure, it was just pepper, but she knew enough of packaging requirements to know that even adding ten years was being painfully optimistic.

"Oh, you love my cooking, eh? And why is that?"

"You give huge portions! I need all I can get to get my pump on!"

"Your what?"

"My pump!"

Sweet merciful god, he was flexing. Granted, his muscles were impressive, and his arms could likely break through the walls of the prison, provided he were so inclined, but given that he was in line for hot dogs at half past the half-way point of the day, she doubted that escape was high on his list of priorities.

"You are a vain, silly boy."

"I am not!"

Indignant. And was that a hint of offended pride? Surely not. It had to be the fumes from the chemical experiment, aka lunch, currently evaporating on the steam table. The pallid broccoli alone had to be responsible for many a lunchtime hallucination.

"Tell me. Why do you love those hot dogs so much? I could cook for you a sausage that would make your puny hot dogs weep in jealousy!"

The boy had odd mannerisms. He would be jumping into the air one moment, thrilled that mustard was brown instead of yellow, then again, he would be sobbing because there was no sauerkraut. Today was a sad day.

"Aw, yeah, I know you could, but there ain't nobody that can fix a hot dog up like my Ma, no offense to you, Ms. Red."

And that was enough for her. The brown mustard would go on the left side of the bun, the sauerkraut on the bottom. The hot dog itself would be placed on top of the cabbage and spices.

But not today.

Today was for creamed corn.

He would get his hot dog, she would make certain of it.

But for today, he would have to deal with what she provided.

"Eat your food. We will talk of hot dogs later. You have kitchen duty tonight."

"But I thought I had bathroom dut..."

"Shut it. I say you have kitchen duty, so you have kitchen duty. We will talk more then."


End file.
